


Grey dreams

by erimies



Category: Dragon Age: Origins, Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling, Naruto
Genre: Alternate Universe - Coffee Shops & Cafés, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Crossover, Drama, Gen, Horror
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-14
Updated: 2015-12-14
Packaged: 2018-05-06 18:12:51
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,662
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5426828
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/erimies/pseuds/erimies
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>One day, Sarah woke up. She wishes she had not. The world is meant for the beautiful people. Not someone like her. </p><p>Or, the crossover not-quite deconstruction of the coffee shop AU story. It's not so pleasant to live in one of those when you are not a main character.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Grey dreams

**Author's Note:**

> I have nothing against coffee shop AUs, but I don't usually read them either. This story should probably have been written by someone who is more familiar with the trends and clishes of the premise, but here we are.

Sarah became aware of a dull, hot pain. She looked down at the front of her shirt. There was a brown stain, rapidly spreading on the white fabric. She pinched it and pulled it away from her skin. The pain eased somewhat.

Someone was apologising profusely. The sound seemed to come from somewhere far away, as though something heard in a dream. She looked up and into a pair of the brightest blue eyes she had ever seen in her life. He was the one who had spilled coffee on her, she realised, and was now trying to make amends.

He really did look funny, now that she thought about it. He had dark lines like whiskers on his cheeks. And his hair caught the bleak fluorescent light of the coffee shop and made it into a halo.

He was looking worried, now. She realised he was expecting a response.

There was a sensation of waking up. Sarah drew in a deep breath.

Then she screamed.

 

* * *

 

A quarter of an hour later, she was sitting in the employees’ quarters, wearing a borrowed shirt that fell off one of her shoulders no matter how she pulled. The cute, shy barista had ushered Sarah to sit down somewhere calm and quiet and asked what was wrong and if she should call someone.

Sarah had kept her mouth shut. How was she supposed to explain that she was suffering from an existential crisis? It wasn’t often people realised they weren’t really real.

She craned her neck and glanced at the clientele in the shop. They stared ahead with familiar, dull eyes. Their every move looked like a habit. They were just like she had been. Only the employees of the shop and the young man who had first spilled the coffee seemed to actually exist.

Sarah stood up. She had to get out of here, before the barista came back.

Hinata was very sweet and kind, but there was something about the way she looked at Sarah that unnerved her. It might have been the way her eyes were pure white and had no pupils at all.

 

* * *

 

Sarah went to school in her oversized, borrowed shirt, wondering if she’d get in trouble. She need not have worried. No one seemed inclined to acknowledge that she existed.

She waved her hand in front of the face of one of her classmates. He didn’t even blink. In the front, the teacher droned on. No one else moved at all. They could have been cardboard cut-outs.

Sarah went back to her seat and resumed staring out of the window. It was raining outside. Everything was so utterly grey she could have screamed again.

This had started with that man. What was his name again? He had said it, hadn’t he?

Naruto. His name was Naruto, and he was bright and colourful and alive. He had woken her up.

Sarah thought she might resent him.

 

* * *

 

Days passed, and eventually Sarah was drawn back to the coffee shop.

The greyness of the time before had begun to creep inside again. She had noticed her memory slipping, her wits dulling, her consciousness fading. At first she had welcomed it. If things went back to the way they used to be, she wouldn’t have to know she lived in a world of cardboard. She wouldn’t have to notice how nothing really tasted of anything and how eerily silent everyone was.

But life is a habit that is hard to shake. As it slips away, you find yourself clinging to it that much more fiercely. As Sarah diminished, she found herself wanting to take that next breath anyway. 

And so she had returned to the coffee shop. 

Sarah opened the door. Life and light poured out and washed over her in an overwhelming cacophony. A little bell tinkled somewhere above. Its chime was the most beautiful melody in the universe, as well as an organ choir of doom.  

Sarah tried to look like she wasn't completely overwhelmed by it all and walked to the counter. Thankfully, the person behind it was someone else than Hinata. Sarah glanced at the name tag. Sakura. Her hair was a bright shade of bubblegum pink and her eyes implausibly jade green, but she at least looked less like an alien by the virtue of having pupils. 

“I was hoping to return this to the person called… Naruto-kun?” Sarah said quietly, offering the washed, folded shirt to Sakura. “Does… does he come here often? I don’t know where else to take this.”

Sakura squinted her eyes suspiciously. “What’s he to you?”

“I… nothing? I just want to return the shirt?”

“Well, good. Don’t get any ideas. He belongs to Hinata-chan, _shannaro_!”

Sakura’s head seemed to swell, until she loomed over Sarah like the wrath of gods. Sarah could do nothing but nod, words caught in her throat.

She decided she didn’t like Sakura better than Hinata, after all.

 

* * *

 

After that day, Sarah became a regular in the coffee shop. In fact, she spent most of her days there, sipping latte in the corner table. There was no reason to go to school anyway. It had taken her a few days to notice, because she hadn't really paid any attention in the first place, but the teachers taught the same things all over again every day. The school only had to look like a school from a distance. 

Anything at all that was even remotely interesting happened in the coffee shop. At least, anything interesting that she was allowed to be in the periphery of. The beautiful people often talked about festive outings and movies and theatre performances and art gallery openings. 

She wasn’t sure what most of the beautiful people did for a living. Some of them worked in the coffee shop. Most of them did not. Naruto was apparently a photographer by trade. He also had a painfully obvious thing for Hinata. Everyone else seemed inexplicably invested in their relationship.  

Watching them was more interesting than watching the grey scenery through the classroom window, and then going home to watch the grey scenery through her own window. But it was desperately lonely. 

Sarah had considered asking if she could join the beautiful people, and decided against it. She had looked into a mirror and seen nothing but dull greyness. Why would butterflies want to spend time with a moth? A background character belonged in the background. 

 

* * *

 

'It' first happened two months after Sarah woke up. 

That day, the coffee shop seemed especially alive. Naruto was kneeling in front of Hinata, who was blushing deep red and looked like she was about to faint. He reached in his pocket and presented her with a shiny golden ring.

Hinata fainted. Sakura caught her before she hit the floor. There was a lot of cheering. People were patting Naruto in the back.

Sarah smiled a little. It was sort of nice, watching them be so happy. Like a dream come true. She went back to her latte, feeling just a little wistful. It would be nice to have something like that. 

Inexplicably, there were petals floating down around her. Even the coffee shop seemed to be in a mood to celebrate.

 

* * *

 

That night, she dreamed of a massive plant that reached so high you couldn’t see where its branches ended. They reached all over the world, wrapping entire cities in green shackles and growing people in pods.

Sarah woke up in cold sweat. The moon outside shone pale and flat against the greyness of the world.

It was still better than the moon of the dream, which had burned crimson and had strange black marks squirming over its surface.

 

* * *

 

The next morning, she went back to the café and found it abandoned. Its windows were dirty and opaque, its door boarded over. It looked like it had been unused for a decade, not closed overnight.

Sarah pinched herself. It hurt. It didn’t help.

She was as awake as ever.

 

* * *

 

Sarah wandered to the city centre. Without the coffee shop, she felt adrift, like a ship without a rudder. And the world around her made for a strange ocean. 

She found a cash machine and, with some difficulty, recalled her own pin code and tapped it in. There were fifty dollars in her account.

Where had the money come from, anyway? She was sure she had spent a lot of it already, mostly on pastries and latte. She was equally sure her parents didn't pay her allowance. 

She hadn’t thought to think about it before the coffee shop shut. In this world of flat, grey shapes, her thoughts were clearer than in the coffee shop.  

She withdrew all of her money. Once the machine spat out her card, she put it back in.

There were still fifty dollars in her account.

 

* * *

 

Three days later, the coffee shop was inexplicably back in business. It had a different name and interior design, but it was also exactly the same because nothing else around it had the slightest bit of colour or light.

The _only_ spark of life in this world, Sarah thought bitterly. The world did not spare resources for anyone else except these beautiful people who made coffee and laughed and sometimes fell in love.

Sarah wished she could have all of that, too. And if she couldn't, she wanted to go back to being a prop, unthinking and dull and providing the background that had to exist but did not have to have details. Because she was stuck somewhere in between the two extremes, part of neither, and it hurt.

She found herself at the front of the line. She ordered a “café bombón” for a change of pace and because it sounded pretentious and fun.

The young man behind the counter had brown hair and passionate green eyes and only scowled a little at her request, but it might have just been his face. His nametag said ‘Eren’. There was also a beautiful girl who looked like she’d be a terrifying opponent in a game of poker and a beautiful young blond man who tripped over his feet a lot.

Sarah took her drink when it was offered and went to sit in the corner. No one paid her any attention.

Half an hour later, a short, scowling man with an undercut arrived and made an ass of himself. Eren blushed and stammered anyway.

Well. Sarah supposed it took all kinds.

 

* * *

 

Over time, watching the beautiful people come and go, Sarah became aware of the pattern. There was always a lot of awkward dancing around of feelings, to the frustration of friends and various wingmen who tried to push the oblivious lovers together. There was foam art and cinnamon buns. There was recreational drug use, art galleries and thanksgiving dinners.

And, for some reason, there was always that one person who was a professional photographer.

And the story always, always ended with some sort of a romantic moment, a celebration that the lovers had gotten together after all. Often it was a proposal, but sometimes not. There was one memorable instance of the happy couple announcing a pregnancy.

And it always happened in the coffee shop. And there were always petals of flowers in the air. A celebration, Sarah thought, a ritual to announce the death of one cycle and the birth of another.

Overnight, the coffee shop would then close and become a desolate, abandoned building. She wondered if it was resting. Or maybe searching for its next victims, preparing their dreams. Maybe both.

(She had strange dreams those nights. She dreamt of people living beyond walls, hiding from giant man-eating monsters. Of teenage werewolves, running in packs. Of a world conquered by British people in mecha suits. Of elves living in woods near a town built on a lake, and a mountain and its dragon looming over them all.)

She didn’t know what happened to the beautiful people after the cycle ended, whether they died or went back to where they had come from. She didn’t think the world had _created_ them, anyway. It seemed to have a limited quantity of creativity.

Certainly none of it was spared for Sarah. 

She usually spent the resting days wandering around aimlessly. She stole things, mostly shiny and sparkly and useless, whatever caught her eye, like a magpie. She hoarded them in her room, which was slowly starting to look like a nest. There was no point to cleaning it, so she didn’t. Her parents never noticed anyway.

She stole a television once, carried it right out of the store without anyone batting an eye. She played games on it, and they at least were colourful and made pretty noises, but tended to consist of short segments of functional play that were stitched together like some sort of digital Frankenstein’s monster.

She supposed these, too, were technically meant for the beautiful people. If so, they were probably bewitched by the coffee shop and didn’t notice too many things about the world either. Only she did. Lucky her.

Sarah was aware of her mind slipping. Not like it had before, with the steady seeping of greyness, but an unhinging, borne of utter loneliness, that felt almost physical. She wondered if it made any difference. She was probably mad from the beginning, anyway. Something _had_ to be wrong with her, the only one who woke up from the endless dream.

One day, at the beginning of yet another cycle, it was suddenly all too much to bear. Sarah slumped down to her knees right there, in the middle of the line, and _screamed_.

Of course, this was the place of the beautiful people, and they noticed. Sarah became aware of people pulling her up, steering her away, guiding her to sit down, and she let them. What did it matter, in the end? She was the only one who stayed when the beautiful people left.

“You’ll all disappear, too,” she sobbed. “You can’t even see the _pattern_. You’ll live and dream and spend all of the colour and light there is and leave nothing for the rest of us and the person behind the counter will marry their favourite customer and then you will all _disappear_. You’re just feeding the coffee shop!”

There was awkward murmuring around her. She was fairly sure she caught the words ‘loony’ and ‘mad’.

Fair enough. She wasn’t sure they were _wrong_ , anyway.

She pressed her face in her hands and cried. The world did not care.

 

* * *

 

Miss Cousland was serving the customers today. Consequently, a nervous fair-haired man was hiding behind a plotted plant, trying to gather the courage to approach her.

“How do _you_ do it?” Alistair whispered urgently to a blond elf standing next to him. “How do you… woo… women? Zevran, you know about these things, right? You have… experience.”

“About ‘wooing’ women?” Zevran said, examining his nails with the air of magnanimously putting up with the foolishness of a friend. “I should think so, although I would not use that word to describe it…”

“Well, do you have any advice? Any _useful_ advice?”

“I happen to think that chewing Antivan roots and arching your back are…”

“I can’t ask her to _bed_ before I ask her _out_!”

“Oh, _very_ well. I shall demonstrate. See that young lady sitting alone in the corner table? Watch carefully.”

He left Alistair to chew on his nails in worry (or whatever it was that insecure people did) and approached the girl. There was an unhappy look on her face, which was mostly the reason he had chosen her. He was nothing but a gentleman, and some respectful flattery and flirtation would probably lift her mood.

“Ah, pardon me,” he said, “but I could not help noticing your loveliness–“

He didn’t get any further, mostly because she took one stunned look at him and screamed in terror. She grabbed her backpack and bolted. 

Zevran stood in stunned silence.

“They… do not usually do that,” he said weakly.

“Well, I feel much better already,” Alistair said. “At least miss Cousland hasn’t run away screaming yet.”

“Oh, do not flatter yourself, Alistair,” sniffed Morrigan, who was always unerringly drawn to other people’s embarrassment like a vulture to the smell of carrion. “Zevran should not have tried to flirt with the local lunatic, that's all.”

“’Lunatic’?”

“That was mean, Morrigan,” chastised Leliana, who had trailed after Morrigan out of the always well warranted worry she would insult customers and drive them away. “That poor girl is simply… disturbed. We should not be so harsh on her.”

“If someone could explain what’s going on, that’d be great,” said Alistair.

“Well, there isn't much to tell. A few days ago, that girl… she started to scream right in the middle of the line. Fell apart entirely. We didn’t get much out of her, but… she seems to be under the impression that… well, that the coffee shop is cursed.”

“Truly? How bizarre,” Zevran said.

“You’re telling me.”

 

* * *

 

At first, Zevran put it all out of his mind. He was good at seeing the bright side of things, and it wasn’t the first time he had been rejected. So he went back to his job in the tattoo parlour and occasionally visited the coffee shop and made fun of Alistair’s sad attempts at romance.

However, as the days passed, he couldn’t help but start to notice… things. Small details and discrepancies. The unnatural stillness of some people, the flashes of grey in reflections. An impression of… edges. As though whatever reality he inhabited was nothing but a bubble in a larger pond.

What was it that Leliana had told him the girl had said? ‘ _You’ll live and spend all of the colour and light and leave nothing for the rest of us_ ’…

And of course it was foolish and he was simply tired of work… but the sense of wrongness did not go away and grew instead, because suspicion is a stubborn weed and its roots will invade the tiniest crack. And the more he noticed, the less he could ignore.

He did not belong here. The tattoo needle in his hands felt wrong, its balance something different than they were used to. His _instincts_ were wrong, reacting to sudden noises and things that moved in the shadows. Zevran thought his real profession must be something else. Something dangerous and exciting and terrible. 

He had long, sharp ears because he was an elf, and he hailed from Antiva… and both of these things had the taste of truth, but when he tried to think about where his home _was_ or the last time he had _seen_ another elf, he found nothing but fog and confusion. There was a veil that prevented him from seeing the world as it was.

But there was someone who did.

 

* * *

 

It took a week for her to return to the shop. Zevran knew because he was counting.

And he was counting because, during the last two days, he had started to forget. He had drawn on his forearm with a permanent marker first, but the words kept fading away. Finally, he had had to resort to his own tattoo needle.

Whatever it was that controlled this world, it apparently did not want him to know these things.

This time, he approached her like he would a scared, injured animal. She looked terrible, more so than the last time. There were dark circles under her eyes and her hands shook, clutched around her latte.

“Don't be scared,” he said in a calm, low voice, lifting his palms when she looked up at him, gasped and made to bolt again. “Please, let me speak! I want to apologise for frightening you. I did not mean to. I simply… Ah, how should I put this? There is something wrong about the world, yes? I want to know about it.”

She froze. “You’ve… noticed?”

“A little, I think. Perhaps we should talk elsewhere?”

“I… yeah. I guess.”

 

* * *

 

Zevran took Sarah to the back room of his tattoo parlour and made her some hot chocolate. She calmed down considerably after finding an understanding ear, and, after some gentle coaxing, told him the entire depressing story.

“Sometimes, I feel like this world doesn’t have a proper future,” Sarah said. “It can’t get any new time, so it just repeats the same old junk over and over again. Like a stagnated pool. Or an endless dream.”

“And you are stuck here, while the rest of us are… exchanged?”

“Well, yeah. But isn't it you guys who are special? 'Rest of us' means me and the others. Us background props. Only I happen to _know_ it. Unlike the others.”

“That sounds terrible,” Zevran said carefully.

(Truthfully, he still had trouble wrapping his mind around the concept of a… a predatory coffee shop, but he felt like it was appropriate to show compassion.)

“It _is_ terrible. It’s not just the not having any light or colour or music. Imagine knowing that you don’t matter, at all. To anyone. Ever.”

“Well, you are no longer alone,” Zevran said and offered his hand. “I am not fond of the concept of disappearing into the unknown, but I am far less familiar with this world than you. I suggest that you and I work together.”

Sarah stared at his hand like she was expecting it to bite her, eyes wide and incredulous. But she took it. And if her hand trembled, he didn't mention it. 

 

* * *

 

“My friend, I have found it!”

Zevran swept in the kitchen, way too energetic for eight in the morning. Sarah peered at him through her shaggy fringe. She had ended up bunking in the spare room of his tattoo parlour, and was now slowly working through though the shock of sharing living space with someone who actually greeted her in the morning. Or any time they didn't see each other for a while. Actually, he spoke to her all the time, and not just about their mission. Sometimes, she was so overwhelmed by the attention and the light and colour that trailed after Zevran that she forgot to answer altogether. 

Zevran seemed like a nice person. He always politely ignored the awkward moments when Sarah misplaced her tongue.

She was starting to feel like she should maybe get a haircut, though. Or something, anyway. He woke up looking like an underwear model. She woke up looking like a carpet someone had thrown up on.

“What’d you find?”

“The owner! My friends are merely renting the coffee shop, and I thought it was a lead worth following. Because it is unnecessary, yes? Why would the world bother to expend resources on something like that?”

“I guess it’s worth checking out,” Sarah allowed, unwilling to dampen his enthusiasm. “But chances are it’s just a name and that person doesn’t exist. It’s happened before. My school doesn’t actually have a principal. There’s an office and a name plaque, but the door is always locked and there’s nothing but an empty room inside.”

“How do you know this, if the door was locked?”

“I broke in. Climbed through the window.”

“Ah, you _are_ a woman after my own heart.”

Sarah grinned. Her cheeks felt hot. She wondered if that was normal. 

 

* * *

 

They followed Zevran’s address to a lopsided apartment building in a particularly depressing and lifeless section of the city. There was a single lit window in the highest floor, like a beacon in darkness.

They went inside and climbed the rickety stairs. The wallpaper was starting to peel off and cobwebs hung from the ceiling, but there was also a sense that someone was living there. The floor was mostly covered in dust, except for a path of footsteps in the middle.

The door was as battered as the rest of the house, but there was a shiny metal plaque with the initials A. D. and a doorbell. Both of them looked relatively clean, like someone took care of them.

Zevran and Sarah exchanged a nervous glance. Then, Zevran pushed the button. A shrill melody rang, slicing through the silence of the hallway.

“Come in!” called the voice of an elderly man. “The door is unlocked.”

Zevran turned to look at Sarah and beamed. “Hear that? He exists!”

“Lookin’ good,” Sarah admitted, smiling despite herself. She hadn’t wanted to hope, but it seemed inevitable. She supposed she had no choice but let it happen. She was good at accepting things that couldn’t be changed.

They went inside. The décor followed the general trend of peeling wallpapers and cobwebs, but it was warm and well lit and friendly. Certainly it seemed to be ‘alive’, unlike the rest of the world.

The supposed owner of the coffee shop was waiting for them in his study. He was tall and thin and owned a beard and hair that were white and so long they could be tucked under his belt. He had a hooked nose that looked like it had been broken at least twice. Brilliant blue eyes twinkled behind a pair of half-moon spectacles.

He definitely wasn’t a creation of the world.

“How can I help you?” he asked kindly.

“You seem to be in hold of all of your mental faculties,” Zevran said, with his typical irreverence. “Do you know anything about this strange world? Is there perhaps a way we can get away? Back to where we came from?”

The old man raised an eyebrow in surprise. “So, you two are aware? The enchantment of this land is a powerful one. May I ask how you came to break it?”

“Well, _I_  didn't do much at all,” Zevran said. “Unless you count stuffing my feet in my mouth. It was all thanks to this lovely young lady beside me.”

Sarah dropped her gaze and stared at her feet, as the old man turned to look at her. 

“I don’t know what happened,” she said. “I just woke up one day and I’ve been watching people come and go ever since. No one listened until Zevran. Not that I tried very hard to speak to them, though.”

“You were born of this world?” the old man said. “I am sorry to hear that. You must have suffered a lot.”

Sarah shrugged awkwardly. She didn't know what to say. Something about the old man made words get stuck in her throat. 

“Yes, well,” Zevran said, putting a hand on her shoulder and gently steering the topic, “in any case, we are all stuck together in this evil world. And I for one would like to do something about that.”

The old man hummed. “Evil? No, I do not believe that is the correct word,” he said. “A cuckoo bird does not lay its eggs in the nests of other birds out of malice. This world exists as its nature demands. It occupies its own modest niche without causing trouble for other worlds, most of which are larger and better organised. These dream worlds, small parasitic paradises, have their purpose.”

“So… what? What do semantics matter? We should just wait until it’s done with us because it doesn't _mean_ harm?”

“Indeed, ’not evil’ is not the same as ‘not dangerous’,” said the old man with infuriating patience. He might as well have been talking about the weather. “I am not aware of what happens to the people caught here after the cycle ends.”

“But… how can you not know that? Aren’t you trapped here, too?” Sarah asked timidly.

“Not quite trapped, no. I am simply… waiting for a train, so to say.”

“And I take it that  _we_ cannot take this train?” Zevran said. He was starting to sound irritated.

“I am afraid neither of you has a ticket. No, you must find your own path.”

“And you cannot tell us which way it is?”

“I would not know where to point. It is, after all, _your_ path.”

 

* * *

 

Zevran and Sarah left the apartment with pockets full of lemon-flavoured candy and wishes of good luck.

They went to wait at the bus stop. It arrived quickly, no doubt because Zevran was waiting there (and god forbid that he should get bored). They boarded it and went to sit in the very back. There was no one else inside. 

“He was not a very useful mentor type person, was he?” Zevran said irritably. “I wonder if he does this often. Gives everyone confusing advice and then laughs into his beard when they stumble around, trying to figure out what he meant.”

“But now we know there _should_ be a way,” Sarah said. “He said he’s waiting for a train. So maybe he came here on another train. If we can find the way _you_ came to this world…”

“...We could find the way back as well!” Zevran finished, face bright with rekindled excitement. “That is an _excellent_ idea, my friend! Where shall we look first? The coffee shop is the obvious choice, yes?”

Watching Zevran smile was like watching someone light a match, Sarah thought. A sudden spark of light in the darkness.

She would miss him after he left. But it was best not to think about that.  

And then, quite suddenly, the world was drained of light and colour. Zevran's personal bubble of life was gone. 

 

* * *

 

The coffee house was always eerie and empty in the still of the night. Without people, it did not seem to bother to pretend to be a real place, as Sarah had found out during one of the earlier cycles.

“So this is what the coffee shop is _really_ like,” Zevran said, craning his neck to see everything around him. “How dull and terrible. This entire _world_ is dull and terrible. I cannot imagine how you managed to  _live_ like this.”

“Well, if you’re lucky you won’t have to,” said Sarah irritably. The sudden change of rules was frightening her, and Zevran acting like it was all an interesting exhibit didn’t help. “You could try taking this seriously. I don’t think the world wants us poking around here.”

“But that is a good thing! If we are not supposed to be here, I’m convinced this is where we want to go! I wonder if something will try to kill us soon. That would be _exciting_.”

“Do you have a _death wish_?”

“I… I think that perhaps I…” Zevran said, then frowned and fell quiet.

Sarah bit her lip. That seemed like a painful memory. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean…”

“No, no, it is quite all right,” Zevran said, sighing and waving his hand. “Truthfully, there is a part of me that does not want this blissful dream to end. I feel like there is something I am happier not remembering… but I also do not wish to be _used_. I think I am quite sick of that.”

Sarah opened her mouth to say something, not sure what, and realised they had been walking far longer than they should have. Unless the coffee shop was bigger on the inside, which was its own terror. 

“Was… was this hallway _always_ this long?”

As soon as she said that, the shadows of the hallway were suddenly full of creeping, undulating shapes. They swarmed out, moving as though swimming in the air. Sarah screeched in terror and backed away until her back hit the wall. Zevran shouted something that sounded like ‘braska!’ and flipped open a pocket knife. It looked laughably small in his hand, but he seemed to have an idea of how to use it. He stabbed it in the head of the first screeching shade, ripped it out and moved to the next target. He was soon covered in strange purple residue, but it didn't slow him down. 

Sarah watched him, trying to gather up the courage to help, to _do_ something. Her heart hammered in her chest like a piston. Her body was made up of one big shiver, reaching from the top of her neck to her toes. Terror and excitement twined into a terrible web and trapped her thoughts. Adrenaline, so foreign to her system, was poisoning her. 

And then, one of the wraiths crawled closer to her, heaving and pulsing, pulling itself along as though the air was something viscous. Perhaps, from its perspective, it was.

Sarah jerked violently and her petrified fear bled into fluid motion. She screeched like a dying vulture and kicked the creature with everything she had. And then again. And again. She was alive, and she _felt_ alive like she never had before, and she was going to hang onto her life tooth and nail.

Unfortunately, there wasn’t much in the way of weapons in the hallway. Sarah grabbed a painting that was hanging on the wall and smashed it against a shade. The canvas broke, but the fragments of the frame were sharp and sturdy. She picked up two shrapnels of reasonable size and charged.

She had no training, no finesse. All she had was pure fury, and now that she had had a taste of it, it seemed like there was an endless well of resentment and anger deep within her. These creatures, these _things,_ were the minions of the world that had created her and abandoned her and wouldn’t even allow her to have someone for company. She had no mercy to give. 

Sarah wasn’t sure how long the battle lasted. She was aware of nothing but screaming and stabbing and creeping shadows and white-hot rage. And there was something hot and wet dribbling down her thigh, but that wasn't important either.

Then, there was silence. For several seconds, she didn’t notice and went on stabbing at a pile of rags that was no threat to anything anymore.

Eventually, the last piece of the picture frame broke in her hand. She tossed the fragments away and pressed her fists against her eyes. Her palms were full of splinters and bled painfully, and she couldn’t stop crying, and she felt like some terrible weight had lifted off her shoulders and lodged itself in her throat. The silence rang loud in her ears.

“Sarah?” said Zevran uncertainly. She looked up at him. The light was dim, but she still saw the way he looked at her. Like she was an injured animal.

Fair enough, she supposed.

“I’m… okay,” she said, forcing her voice to sound as normal as she could. “Mostly. What about you?”

“I’ve had worse, I think,” Zevran said, brushing his fingers against his temple and frowning when they came back bloody. “We should worry about you, now. You are bleeding.”

Sarah glanced down. There were lacerations all over her body, but they were nothing compared to the gaping wound in her side. It was bleeding down her thigh. She hadn’t even noticed.

“Perhaps you should go wait outside while I investigate further,” Zevran suggested carefully. “I believe I have some combat experience, whereas–“

“Absolutely not,” Sarah said, dragging herself up by the wall. “I _finally_ get to do something. I’m not going to be a background character in my own story.”

Zevran looked like he wanted to protest, but he must have seen something in her face that convinced him otherwise.

“At least allow me bandage you up," he said. "And we should, perhaps, find better weapons.”

 

* * *

 

Armed with kitchen knives and some saucepan lids, they ventured deeper into the bowels of the coffee shop. And if Sarah had thought the world poorly constructed before, this place wasn’t even _trying_.

Tables and chairs and bookcases were hanging in the air, apparently unaware that floor was their proper place. The corners of the rooms were covered in strange fleshy growths that smelled like a cesspool. A strange mist crept along the floor and twirled around their legs. There was a light, pale and green and seemingly shining from everywhere at once.

“Strange,” Zevran said. “All of this seems… familiar. I think I remember, now. We were trapped in dreams by a demon. This must be where the worlds are connected.”

“Through dreams? Is that possible? You're really here, aren't you?”

“Well, what I know about magic and the Fade could fit into a thimble… but I _think_ so. Lady Cousland found us in the Fade and we confronted the demon, and…”

He paused in front of a large ornamental mirror. It shimmered strangely in the green light of the room. Its surface rippled gently, as though it was made of liquid instead of glass.

“This is it,” Zevran said breathlessly. “This is the door! I _remember_ now. The mirror wasn’t supposed to be there, that was what Morrigan shouted… and the demon used it, and we all fell through and forgot…”

He brushed his fingertips against the glass, and shimmering rings spread outwards from the place he’d touched. The mirror’s surface turned purple and began to crackle with electricity.

And something came out.

Zevran and Sarah backed away at once, shoulder to shoulder and ready to fight.

The shape emerged from the mirror, grasping the spiked, jagged frame and dragging itself out. Something that looked like pieces of ice fell through, hit the floor and immediately melted. The hiss of boiling water filled the room.

The creature was thin and skeletal. It was dressed in robes that hung off its starved frame. It wore a helmet that covered its eyes, but it did not seem to have any difficulty seeing.

“What do we have here?” it said. Its voice grated, and echoed strangely, as though it had two poorly harmonised voices instead of one. “Did I not return you to your dreams once already? Why do you keep rejecting the happiness I offer?”

“I will not be your plaything,” Zevran spat. “You are much too ugly to have your way with me.”

The demon laughed. It sounded like it was gurgling with gravel. “I did not mean to imply you had a choice,” it said. “You are still within the power of this realm… and _we_ have an agreement.”

“No! I will not fall for the same trick again! You can’t make me forget!”

The demon gurgled again. “Are you so certain you wish to remember? What about _Rinna_? Do you wish to remember the look on her face, when you spat on her and said you didn’t care?”

Zevran froze, caught off guard by whatever memory the demon had stirred. It took the opportunity and waved its hand.

“ _Sleep_ ,” it whispered.

Zevran slumped on the floor, out cold. Sarah grabbed his shoulders, unsure what she could do to help. She tried shaking him and yelling. She wasn’t sure if it helped or made things worse. He didn’t wake, anyway.

“And you…” the demon said and paused. It didn’t have much in the way of a face, but Sarah got the impression it was frowning. “I… do not know you. Well, no matter. Are you not tired of this existence? Why should you alone have to bear the burden of awareness? I can return you to that time before… when things were simple and you did not suffer…”

All of a sudden, its voice did not grate her ears. It was a soothing lullaby, raindrops against glass and the rustle of leaves in the wind. Sarah yawned. Maybe resting wasn’t such a bad idea. She couldn’t deny she wanted what it offered. She had been unable to let go of life on her own, but surely it wouldn’t be so bad to let someone else do it. She was willing to do anything to end this existence, wasn’t she?

She turned her sleepy eyes to Zevran, who had slumped on the floor. His eyes were closed and his face twisted in agony, as he fought whatever nightmare the demon had inflicted on him.

Sarah sighed. Perhaps not ‘anything’, after all.

“You come to _my_ home,” she said. “You barge into  _my_ _shitty_ _world_ , and you try to control me? Who was born here? Well, too bad for you, but I’m a stubborn, hard-headed _bitch_. You can't make me sleep. No one can.”

She bit through her lip, tasted the copper tang of her own blood, and let the pain sharpen her mind. She climbed on her feet, trembling with anger. She still had so much anger. And here was something she could take it out on. 

“You will let him go,” she said. “You will let _all_ of them go. And I’m not asking nicely. I will _make_ you.”

“So be it,” said the demon, sighing in a put-upon manner. “No one _ever_ appreciates my hard work.”

It conjured what looked like a tiny twirling snow storm, pushed and pulled and shaped the magic between its hands. Sarah didn’t wait to see what it would do. She screamed and charged. Rage was a wonderful thing. 

The demon floated away from her, dismayed and put-out rather than alarmed, but it, too, moved slowly like the air was water. Sarah stabbed the kitchen knife into its body, again and again. The demon did not bleed, but something strange and wispy got caught on the blade.

However, if Sarah's method of attack was crude, then her defence was non-existent. The creature swatted at her with its unnaturally long hand, and she flew across the room and slammed against the frame of the mirror. Something sharp sunk deep in her back. Pain exploded, red-hot and radiating. The rush of blood roared in her ears. Her breath was knocked out of her lungs. 

Sarah tried to pry herself off of the mirror. Agony bloomed, her body screamed at her, and cold sweat dribbled down her face. But she didn't give up. There was still anger, burning up and giving her srength. Soon, there was a sickening squelch and the pain receded into a dull, hot throb. Sarah lurched forward, almost fell, and grabbed onto the frame for support.

She wasn’t going to last long. The knowledge was startling, but she didn't deny it. This was real. It was really happening. 

But surviving didn't seem so important anymore. She just wanted to win. At least this once, she wanted to _matter_. 

Using the last reservoir of rage she had, Sarah rushed towards her enemy. It blasted her with magic that made her arms feel like lead and clouded her mind, but it failed to stop her. 

Sarah leaped at the demon, wrapped her arms around its skinny waist and tackled it onto the floor. The demon was just as frail and thin as it looked and wasn't able to resist her momentum. She climbed onto her hands and knees and crawled to its head. Then, she forced its teeth apart and stabbed it through the mouth.

The demon screamed, the sound trailing off and disappearing  into a faint whisper as it died. Or went away. Whatever happened to them after slaying.

Sarah had won. And with the death of the demon, something about the reality shifted and changed. The mirror gleamed brighter, its surface now translucent. On the other side, Sarah could see blurry shapes. They looked distorted and distant, but they were _there_.

Zevran’s world, she thought. The floating furniture and the mist were already disappearing, receding through the glass. It was like the other world was withdrawing its roots.

She had done it. And just in time. She was tired and cold. Her limbs shivered and her head spun. Death would come soon. She wondered what that meant for someone like her.

She didn’t trust her legs to hold her weight, so she crawled back to where Zevran seemed to be waking up.

“Sarah? What happened?”

“I killed the demon,” she said. “The way is open. You can go back now.”

“So I see,” Zevran said, clambered to his feet and, for the second time ever, he offered her his hand. “Let us go together. My companions will show up here sooner or later, I'm sure, but I would rather not wait. I am eager to be rid of this place already.”

“But it’s not my world. I don’t know anything. And I have no skills to live by. I’m not even a real person,” Sarah said. She was also dying, but this didn’t seem like the time to bring that up.

“Truly? Could have fooled me,” Zevran said. “Perhaps life is something you can acquire. Come with me and find out.”

“Will the mirror even let me through?”

“We will force our way through, should it come to that. Come now, you're not really expecting me to leave you here, are you?”

“I… I suppose not,” Sarah said and took his hand. Life was a habit that was hard to quit. She hadn't managed it yet. 

Zevran helped her up, slung her arm over his shoulder and, together, they walked through the looking glass and into the world.

 

* * *

 

In a certain world, in an unassuming nook of the multiverse, there is a coffee shop. It has been there for a long time. It will continue to be there for a long time. One day it may collapse and breathe its last, because all things everywhere must have an end.

But that is a tale that stretches far into the future. Today, the shop opens for business as always. Customers line up for their cup of coffee, bleary-eyed from sleep.

There is something subtly off about them, for someone inclined to notice. A stiffness of movement, a bleakness of expression.

The barista does not notice and smiles instead, glancing at the watch every few minutes as he waits for his favourite customer. He wonders if he will be wearing those delightful tight jeans today. He wonders if he will notice the heart he will make in the foam today.

The shop is a bubble of light and colour. Outside, the world is grey.

In the outskirts of the city, in a lopsided apartment building, an old man waits for a train.

And the rest of the world dreams…

**Author's Note:**

> Zevran and the rest of the team went back to saving the Circle of Magi and forgot their experiences in the parasitic world. Whatever happened to Sarah is not a story I intend to write, but I like to think she was given a chance at proper life.


End file.
